Page 86 of Sinful Lies

“Ouch!” He shot upright, wincing, rubbing at the spot where I’d just assaulted him. His eyes snapped open, the shadows under them showing how little sleep he’d had. “Are you fucking insane?”

“Insane? Insane isyousleeping in my room like some creepy-ass stalker!”

His hair was a tangled mess, and for some irritating reason, he still looked disgustingly good, even like that.

He groaned. “Dio mio. There were no fucking extra rooms. The west wing’s under construction. So I ended up here. On this”—he made a disgusted gesture toward the tiny, pathetic excuse for a sofa—“furniturethey somehow managed to shove into this place. Trust me, Miss Whitenhouse, this was the last place I wanted to crash.”

I jabbed a finger at him. “First choice or not, how about a little heads-up? You know, knock-knock, ‘Hey, I’m crashing here for the night, hope you don’t mind my snoring?’”

His jaw locked as he stood, towering over me, like he was trying to intimidate me.

Honestly, it only worked because he was ridiculously tall.

“I don’t fucking snore.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that, big guy.”

Before he could come back with something even more infuriating, the phone on the nightstand rang. I took that as my cue to escape to the bathroom, leaving him to stew in his own frustration.

I needed to get ready for the day—and away from all that testosterone and thatmorning woodsituation his gray pants were doing absolutely nothing to hide.

If anything, they had made it deliciously worse.

In typical Greg fashion, the breakfast buffet was a feast of indulgence—French pastries, Italian coffees, and American classics. My bottomless morning appetite was thrilled.

I worked the room, playing the effortlessly chic guest while feigning interest in the dull conversations around me. Everyone was dressed like they were heading to a gala at nine a.m.

I fit in perfectly, of course, in my plaid vintage Chanel skirt, Le Temps des Cerises jumpsuit, sheer tights, and Prada boots. My hair cascaded in sleek waves, makeup glowy, matching the fake festivity.

To my relief, Angelo Lazzio was nowhere to be seen.

“Dio mio, Jade, you look ravishing,” Monica Lazzio said, kissing my cheeks before pointing to the seat next to her. “I can’t believe someone like you is wasting her time with my son. You should be on runways, in commercials—you’re every man and woman’s fantasy,dolcezza.”

I smiled.

Monica was surprisingly kind—a rare thing in this world. Despite her occasional superiority, she’d always been gracious to me.

“Flattered, Monica, but I think my talents lie elsewhere.”

Like tormenting your son for fun.

She laughed warmly. “Always modest. You must come shopping with me this afternoon. I’ll find you something spectacular.”

Before I could respond, she added, “Then we’ll hit the spa. I can’t imagine a better afternoon. We could use some pampering, don’t you think?”

Perfect.

Every piece of the puzzle was falling into place. I had everything I needed to make my revenge sting—everything that would tear him down, piece by piece.

The proof? Hidden away, locked tight in my little cage of secrets. Every bill, every contract, every security camera video. I had it all—his empire, the very foundation of his existence, ready to crumble into dust.

But that was just the icing on the cake.

No, I needed more.

Something deeper.

I needed to sink my claws into something so personal it would destroy him from the inside out. Something that would leave him a hollow shell of the man he thought he was.

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